


If you have to ask, you can't afford it

by heresy



Category: Thief (Video Games)
Genre: (because drinking), Alcohol, Anonymous Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:30:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4146480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heresy/pseuds/heresy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because who DIDN'T find it extremely questionable that we start the game in a bedroom with some drunk and sleepy rando passed out in there with Garrett? (this is basically pwp)</p>
            </blockquote>





	If you have to ask, you can't afford it

Rando wakes up with an angry swarm of bees in his head instead of a brain. Everything hurts. Moving his head is a terrible mistake. He closes his eyes, smells sour wine on himself, and attempts a groan. No. Bad idea. Ouch. Last night had been- . Okay. He doesn't really remember all of it. It had been a fucking great party, but he didn't stay for that long.  
Rando frowns. No no no. That hurts too. No frowning for now.  
There was flute music, dancing, and wine - he remembers being offered taste after taste of 'the good stuff' enough that his head was spinning and- oh.  
Well, shit.  
Enough wine that his head was spinning and he DEFINITELY made a pass at Tomas, the young city watch officer that had been assigned to liaison between his department at the academy and the baron. Rando groans despite the way the sound makes his head pound. He had made a pass at an officer of the watch, in _public._ If his wife heard about it-- mortified, Rando shelves that embarrassingly vivid memory. For some reason that incident pales, pales before something amazing, something so unexpected that he would have thought it a dream-- except---  
Focus, Rando.  
He had stumbled back to the room the academy kept on Auldale Bridge, bottle of wine in hand, and had intended on drinking away his shame, then passing out. Alone.  
The window was opened, he remembered that, the breeze sudden and chill across his drink-warmed skin. The candles went out, one by one.

Was it a dream? Shit. If it was, it's the nicest thing that Rando's subconscious has ever done for him.

-

The candles went out, and Rando squinted in the sudden darkness, grip tight on the wine bottle.  
"That's a NRy834 bottle, friend. The year the Baron outlawed worshipping the old gods." A pause. The voice was light, amused. "It should be savored. There are not many of its kind left."  
Rando swayed once, then decided that the most dignified thing he could do at this point would be to sit. So he did, dropping onto the bed with the grace of a drunk academy instructor.  
He squinted into the warm darkness of the room, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The figure still stood in the window, moonlight haloing its slight frame.  
"Will you share it with me?" Rando asked the wraith on a whim.  
The figure hummed thoughtfully, then came forward. It reached quick, confident hands to carefully tilt Rando's head from side to side, examining him. He went easily, the drink making him floppy and malleable.  
It didn't hurt that the figure's hands just felt _nice._  
"I will," the figure at last agreed, and as he pulled down the cowl over his face and the hood covering his head Rando's eyes finally finished adjusting.  
The man in front of him was trim, almost delicate. Poised like a dancer, his hands hovering around the hood, the cowl, the bits of blackness he had pulled away. He was stunning. He had a long nose, kohl around the eyes - had he paid for this company in a blacked-out moment of poor decision making? Drunk Rando didn't think so, but wouldn't have bet on it either way. The man took in his wide-eyed gaze, something of a smirk around those full, bowed lips and something a bit mean in his glittering eyes. Rando was willing to share his wine with him, oh, Rando was willing to share all sorts of things with this stranger in black.

-

And then he doesn't remember things, for a while. He remembers drinking. He remembers the stranger drinking, but not terribly much. Hungover Rando recalls with a sudden flood of heat to his stomach that the man had licked, once, catlike, at his wine-stained lips, and had leaned forward, close, to ask him something.  
But fuck if he could remember what it was.

-

His drinking buddy had slowly, idly, as if it wasn't a slow striptease at all, taken off his cloak, his greaves, the strange attractive leather around his waist. If Rando had been warm with alcohol before, well, he was burning up now with something completely different.

He remembers being shy, because only a few hours prior he had made a mess of things with people he would have to see again in the morning, that could tell his wife, that could ruin his career with slander. But the stranger's dark eyes and clever fingers coaxed him well enough, making quick work of buttons and clasps until the bottle of apparently quite nice wine was completely forgotten and his body was bare and the stranger appraised him, again, music from the festivities below drifting up through the open window.  
An amused deft finger traced briefly his moustache. Rando had felt, at the moment, that he should be offended, but he was too quickly distracted by the skin exposed without the other's cowl or cloak and leaned close.  
"Can I--" he stuttered, only half certain what he was asking. Did he want to sink his teeth into his neck, suck red marks into that pretty flesh? Did he want to melt into the quirked lips in front of him? Was he getting ahead of himself?  
The other shook his head solemnly.

-

Hungover Rando frowns. He must not be remembering something, and the memory fades out for a while, how long he doesn't know, until he comes up with the next puzzle piece available to his poor pickled brain.

The next thing that he remembers was apologizing while the stranger ran a hand through his topknot of thick black hair and wrinkled his nose. Okay. Awesome. What had he said?  
Hungover Rando decides to attempt turning his head from one side of the bed to the other. Some foolish hope that the stranger would be asleep beside him dies. He is alone. And the motion was not pleasant. He focuses on breathing, and closes his eyes again. He is _not_ going to vomit in borrowed rooms.

-

When he ran his hands up the other's firm, lean thighs the man shivered. Shivered like he'd never been touched, like he didn't know whether to lean into it or fling himself out that still-open window. Rando stopped, his body so close that he felt the other man's body heat, and waited, seeking some kind of sign in those kohl-ringed eyes. After a minute the stranger took a deep breath, relaxing, and Rando moved on to reach that slight waist, the neat line of black hair trailing down, to slide his hands and their rough calluses over slender hips, to press against the man's sacrum, urging him forward.  
This strange catlike man was finally in his lap, tense and eager and uncertain, and Rando drunkenly thought of Tomas, the fucking city watch officer. He snorted. The man was off his lap in a second, kneeling on the bed, hand already on his leathers. Rando put his hands up, "Wait, I was thinking of-- this this fucking asshole, I thought I wanted to have sex with him, but with you here it seemed like a joke and--"  
The man calmed again, sighed like he was weary of the world and everything in it, and Rando beckoned hopefully.

-

Another memory gap. Rando frowned. Did he have any water in the room? Could he even handle water at this point? Would it, perhaps, be better to just die now?

-

Back in Rando's lap, the man relaxed again, reaching out to appreciate the soft fur across Rando's chest, trace his clavicles with graceful fingers, and Rando sighed at the sensation. Rando's hands mindlessly skimmed the other's well-formed arms, paused briefly on smooth scar tissue, brushed clumsy fingers over pale nipples, drinking in the way his every touch made the stranger squirm or shiver or tense or relax. He could do this all night, he thought hazily, happily. Just run his hands over this beautiful man and watch him react.  
Then the man opened a small bottle of oil and Rando's mind temporarily shorted itself as any blood that wasn't heading south immediately started sprinting. The man noticed, raising an eyebrow and smirking. Rando grinned stupidly back. And then the stranger had his forehead against Rando's shoulder and was breathing slowly as he worked elegant finger after finger into himself, wrist twisting as he opened himself. Time seemed to stop. Rando watched the man's expression flicker, his mouth open once, slightly, and then he locked eyes and handed the oil to him, face slightly flushed. Rando was wrong- he could NOT spend the entire night just touching the man. His want was a roaring wildfire through his veins.  
The stranger was off Rando's lap in a second, kneeling with the raised columns of his back before him, the curves of his ass as divine as they were obscene.

Rando realized, with all the poignance of a drunk, how hard he was. How hard he had been. He placed one hand, gentle, against the man's neck, just below the closely-shaven bit that accentuated the brilliant curve of his skull. Then he lurched forward, all control lost to the wine, and crashed his knees into the other's thighs.  
The man snickered, and Rando found himself laughing too. A little bit at his own clumsiness, but really, mostly he was grinning deliriously because his cock was throbbing with need and this willing perfect stranger curved his spine and offered himself and how could anyone not smile at that? The universe, Rando declared privately, was totally fucking amazing.  
He pressed in, carefully, slowly, the way drunks handle any task that requires fine motor skills, desperate to prove he wasn't _that_ drunk - though his erection made a compelling case - and the man went down to his forearms, canting his hips and arching his back slightly to guide his angle. Rando took a huge gasp of air, the man felt so fucking tight around him and he didn't want this to be over _that_ quickly. He pictured his wife and the urge to come instantly vanished.  
"Move," The man muttered, half command half gasp.  
Rando obeyed, and the way the stranger anticipated his every thrust and found a rhythm for them nearly undid him again. He cast his eyes around the room, wondering why all the candles were out and why the windows were open, distracting himself from the sinfully good feeling of bottoming out, his hips pressed against the other's firm ass.

-

His memory has nothing for him at that point, but hungover Rando accepts that probably all he's missing is more of the same. It's unfair that he can't remember, but probably he didn't say or do anything stupid, and another chunk of the evening slots into place as he thinks about it, feeling out the soreness in his muscles, a small ache in his knees from taking the stranger like that, and no. Whatever happened in this memory gap was probably more fucking, more of his own thrusts forward and the stranger's greedy hip rolls back. Rando settles into the next memory eagerly.

-

The man was incredibly quiet beneath him. Rando found himself dizzy, wanting, needing him to make some kind of a sound. Preferably one of enjoyment but hell, he'd settle, hell maybe he'd even _like_ a cry of pain, just anything-- delirious he slammed himself home, dragged out and did it again, hard, but the only thing that changed was that the man's breaths came a little ragged, a little quick. Those elegant knuckles whitened imperceptibly against the sheets. The fine muscles lean and shivering under flesh like the moon. The tight heat surrounding him felt so fucking good-- in a sudden heated blur the words "-by the old gods you're _gorgeous_ \--" tumbled messy out of his wine-stained mouth and this, THIS was what did it.  
The man sobbed.  
And fuck, Rando could swear that that small choked noise made him even harder.  
He reached with one drunk-hot hand and thumbed the perfect curve of the stranger's ass, gasped out, "the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," and as his partner moaned, pushing back against him, he felt his stomach flip. This wasn't- this wasn't what he thought he wanted, what the man he's buried to the hilt in wanted either. This was supposed to be a quick anonymous fuck. But this? This was some FEELINGS bullshit. And he was too drunk for this, but he couldn't stop murmuring praise and adoration like they were actual lovers, half slurred and entirely too honest for a one-night stand, and now the other man was a wreck, thighs trembling, gasping as Rando's pace got faster and sloppier.  
The room was so hot. The two of them slick with sweat. Rando could feel a trickle travel down his back and when the stranger glanced unsteadily over his shoulder his eyes were glassy and his kohl was smeared. Rando was so close. He leaned against the other's back, to try and take him in hand and catch him the fuck up, but the man moved Rando's clumsy attempt back to his hip. And, well, okay, with hands that skilled Rando couldn't even find it in him to be mad. He watched, chin resting against the other's ribs, as the man put his slender fingers to work against his own rigid length and groaned.  
Time was getting tricky again, difficult to follow. Rando was lost to the friction, the rhythm, when the man beneath him stiffened, muscles standing out against papery skin, and soundlessly spilled into his own hand, across the sheets. The sudden clench around Rando's cock tipped him suddenly over the edge. Everything whited out as orgasm consumed him, hands clenched to the other's hips like a life raft as the tumult of his own pleasure drowned him.

As Rando fell back, sweaty and panting and buzzing with euphoria, he grinned artlessly at the stranger, who already stood by the edge of the bed, cleaning himself up. Something dark, secret, unknowable flitted across the stranger's fine features, and then something gentled them. He leaned over and pressed cool, trembling lips to Rando's forehead, and Rando reached for him then, self control gone. He wanted-- he wanted the man nestled against him in the deep sleep that was quickly overtaking him. He wanted to hold this stranger, take the the tension already drawing him back like a bowstring and chase it away again and again. He remembered suddenly the tender, ridiculous things he had cried out as they fucked and his face grew hot.  
The man finished putting on his dark garb, safely out of Rando's reach, and Rando slumped down onto the bed. He urged sleep to take him- he was mortified.  
He drifted off to sleep before the man made his exit, dreaming the time-honored drunken dream of absolutely nothing.

-

Hungover Rando sighs, half-hard, and finds it in him to sit up a little. The room spins once, but then settles. Okay. He's probably not going to die, even though he does suddenly feel very hollow. Had he asked for the man's name? To see him again? Shit, maybe he had. The man had certainly not given him any of that information.  
Maybe there's a sloop-seller nearby. Maybe the ache inside him can be filled by some hot food and some hair of the dog to help him move the fuck on with his pathetic little life.  
Rando is surprised to find himself fully dressed again, and not reeking of sex near as much as he thought he would. Had the stranger cleaned him up? Smoothed the bedclothes? Rando casts about for his purse. Sloop. Then he can think about those delicate hands dressing his stupidly sleepy body. Where is his purse? Rando freezes. Shit. Maybe he _had_ bought the man's company, and been too drunk to fish out coins and opted to hand him the whole thing. A blush heats his face as he looks around.  
No. No, wait. His pocket watch is missing, as is the academy's nice silverware, his fountain pen, the pocket portrait of his wife-- Rando frantically sweeps the room on unsteady feet, nauseous, trying to remember what else was in the room when he got there. Everything of value is gone. Rando flops back down onto the bed and groans. 

He feels completely _robbed._


End file.
